


Deathless Aphrodite, Throned in Flowers

by ivyandsage



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Album: Lover (Taylor Swift), Anonymous Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/F, Gay Panic, Inspired by Taylor Swift, Non-Graphic Smut, Not Beta Read, POV is actually the Lover narrative voice so technically not RPF, Purple Prose, Queerplatonic Relationships, Requited Unrequited Love, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but who cares honestly - Freeform, experimental prose because I'm a pretentious fuck, gaylor is canon, high concept angst masquerading as something more poignant, kaylor - Freeform, oh and it's tagged taylor/ofc but the ofc is literally just a bad decision in corporeal form, taylor swift extended cinematic universe, unrequited pining, very mild allusion to conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyandsage/pseuds/ivyandsage
Summary: memories of summer evenings and fairy lights, Cornelia Street and stolen kisses;[...]of parted thighs in the grey half light of New York dawnA collection of interrelated drabbles and oneshots wherein one Miss Americana confronts heartbreak (poorly) and finds strength in unlikely placesNote that this is very much a Gaylor fic with sad Kaylor undertones (read: absolutely not a het fic in any way shape or form) so if you're not about that life just keep scrolling. Any mention of J*e has him taking the role of queerplatonic bff and emotional support beard.
Relationships: Joe Alwyn & Taylor Swift, Karlie Kloss/Taylor Swift, Taylor Swift/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

_Daughter of Zeus, O terrible enchantress,_   
_With this sorrow, with this anguish, break my spirit_   
_Lady, not longer!_   
_\--Sappho_

The smell of early morning dew on night-cooled pavement clings to her nostrils

As the tall girl she met at the club hikes up her skirt and fucks her from behind,

pressing her so hard against the cinderblock alley wall that there are stony scrapes down her chest for weeks

But,

 _Oh_ , is it worth it.

The bruising ache between her legs flares deep within her each homeward step she takes.

It momentarily evicts _H_ _er_ , the one who’s been living nonstop in her mind, in her heart.

She never gets Club Girl’s number, never sees her again, and it’s just as well.

She’d have fake named her anyway. She would have done it even if it wasn’t necessity, survival instinct.

A girl with no name and a familiar face, she could be anyone right now.

The very idea of the freedom it teases so tantalizing it bubbles and swirls inside her

as the first light of dawn paints the eastern edge of the Chrysler building golden-red.

* * *

_He_ gets it.

He has, ever since that first night; the date that's set up by some publicist or another. The date that actually goes well, for once. Before they know it the restaurant patio is closing around them so they order coffee to go and walk around the block. He leaves her at her doorstep with a kiss on the cheek.

She’s terrible at texting back, but with him it’s easy, somehow. He goes back home to the other side of the Atlantic and she doesn’t miss him but she does crack a smile when she sees his name light up on her phone. They talk about big ideas and stupid puns and his astonishment that she doesn’t own an electric kettle. And when he’s finally _(finally) back_ stateside she decorates her apartment just for him; she buys his favourite local craft beers and curls next to him on the couch as the wine and the awful British weed pry open the six years of scar tissue enthralling her heart.

The night ends with her sobbing on the bed while He strokes her back and listens to her blurt out the words that she’d never let herself say out loud.:

“I like girls.”

Then

“I like _only_ girls.”

And

“It’s killing me.”


	2. Chapter 2

She tells Him everything, piece by piece.

  
Sometimes it tumbles from her wine-dark lips, a waterfall of words that once existed only as wisps of thoughts at the corners of her consciousness.

Other times she finds an anecdote about Her slipping almost naturally from her mouth. Like the time she’s doing dishes in His London flat and mistakes the washing machine for the dishwasher.

“To be fair,” She insists

(she’s always fair),

“what kind of psychopath puts a washing machine in the kitchen?”

The British, apparently. He informs her of this after he’s able to speak a full sentence without laughing.

“It’s like this one time, with Kar--“ the word’s sharp edges catch in her throat, uncomfortable but not quite choking this time.

It’s becoming easier with practice.

Like he said it’d be.

Like she never thought it’d be again.

Healing doesn’t feel like this, does it?

“with Her,” She continues, memories of summer evenings and fairy lights, Cornelia Street and stolen kisses;

of a blonde head bobbing between her parted thighs in the grey half light of New York dawn as moans turned to sobs turned to breathy laughs.

If there is a heaven it looks a lot like this.

It’s later that day that they have to call the emergency plumber after She —

(after Karlie )—

Loads the dishwasher with Dawn and and floods the downstairs neighbours’ ceiling and she —

(and Taylor) —

Laughs so hard her ribs ache for hours.

It’s this part she tells to Him—

(tells to Joe)—

as she hand-scrubs the pots she recovers from the washer.

His hand on her back, he leans close to her.

“It’s ok to have good memories too.”

She doesn’t tell him the rest, doesn’t tell him that they climb out onto the roof to escape the soapy linoleum and damp hardwood.

She doesn’t tell him how they look out in silence across the brownstone roofs and the skyscrapers and the water to the twinkling lights of Brooklyn beyond.

She doesn’t tell him about the saltpetre sting against her ribcage and the effervescent waves of creeping desire that crash deep within her.

She doesn’t tell him how Karlie’s delicate fingers entwine with hers almost unconsciously and how Taylor almost doesn’t hear the whispers released from her lips.

“Don’t fall in love.”

And she’s not sure if the words are meant for her at all.


	3. don't call me your girlfriend

You're deliciously wanton tonight, bare legs and no bra, dancing at a club so underground and post-hip no one recognizes you beneath the black wig and low lighting. (Or, at least, they don’t admit to it.)

 _She_ — Karlie — thinks that she’s your first. Girl that is. And you let her because you love the way her cheeks glow, blood rushing beneath sun kissed flesh.

Pride: the spark of deadly sin or a riot for liberation; that unshakable evolutionary drive to explore uncharted lands in order to claim it under the name of king and country, to own an indelible part of its past. To shape its path to the future.

You don't know why you never tell her about your best friend when you were young and lanky and awkward and unable to fight the urge to kiss her when she stays over at your house, to do what never wanted to do with boys; how you plan sleepovers every week after that in hopes that her thigh will once again find its way between your legs and you'll come in front of her _(because_ of her) so quickly and so loudly you want to be embarrassed but how can you be when your body response is so new and intoxicating. Addictive. 

You spend the days in between sleepovers in church and pray silently that the thing you crave so fervently doesn't count as sex so that you can keep doing it.

You don't tell her how you burst a blood vessel sobbing the day your dad walked in. You don't tell her about the 6 weeks at "bible camp". 

You definitely don't tell her about the Pray the Gay Away councillor from your cabin, only a year older than you, who would preach about the horrors of homosexuality by day and would press you up against a tree and pledge fealty to your exposed breasts by night.

You let Karlie believe she's the only one. 

Because then, when it falls apart around you she can tell herself that it never meant anything anyway. 

* * *

Karlie spells her own name with her tongue on your clit and you only have time to think that God must be real; there’s divinity in her touch and you fall to your knees in worship, whispered prayers dissipating into the half-dark of the midsummer night.

After she drifts off and you sprawl out on the bed, inhaling the heady scent of _her_ and pushing thoughts of unsustainability from your mind.

Does she really want you or is she, too, seduced by the simulacra, in love with a reflection. In love with what never was, what never can be.

The days turn to weeks turn to months and the days get shorter. And she doesn’t leave. She whispers the three words over and over, fingers ghosting across your freckles like a rosary. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Beneath the buzzing New York lights you stop to wonder:

Is it you or the idea of you she wants so desperately?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing in 2nd person limited so much (like SO much) but that's the way this one wanted to come out so here we are

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious and/or parodic manner.If you want to be nitpicky, the character of my narrator is based upon the overarching narrative voice that weaves through Lover. I don't pretend to know the actual Taylor's thoughts, feelings or motivations as the source material my work is based upon is the highly curated Taylor Swift persona (and the splinter personas that comprise it) that is available and observable to us mere mortals. This work is not intended to speculate upon real events of the actual singer's life and/or aspects of her personal and private life that I have no access to (and no desire to access)
> 
> This is probably the most extra fucking disclaimer I've written. @ self why are you like this


End file.
